Ned Hayward's missive to the younger Wittingham.
"What hour does the coach start at for London?"
"Half-past four, Sir."
"Arrives in town at twelve to-morrow, I think?"
"No, Sir; last time I went up, we got there by eleven."
"Then down again at half-past four?"
"Yes, Sir--gets to the White Hart at half-past eleven--longer coming
down than going up."
"That will do very well." And Ned Hayward, who had held the above
conversation with one of Sir John Slingsby's servants, hurried
upstairs. His room was all in the most exact order. His fishing
tackle, two fowling-pieces in their cases, shot-pouches, game-bags,
powder-flasks, &c., were in array on the top of the drawers. His
clothes were all in their separate places, his boots arranged under
the dressing-glass, his writing-desk upon the table, flanked on either
side by half-a-dozen volumes. Every thing could be found in a moment,
so that if called upon suddenly to march, the baggage would require no
time to pack. It was to the writing-desk he first went however; he
opened it, unscrewed the top of the inkstand, took out a sheet of
notepaper and a memorandum-book, and then sat down deliberately in
the chair. The memorandum-book was first called into service, and in
the column of accounts he put down what he had paid at the inn that
morning, and then, on another page, wrote down the following list,
which I will not attempt to explain,
"Catch trout.
"Write to H. W.
"See Ste Gim.
"Make inquiries.
"Provide for boy.
"Pack car. bag.
"Coach to London.
"Sell out 12,000_l_.
"Alter will.
"Pistols.
"Friend--qy. Beauchamp.
"Talk to him of No. 2 and No. 8."
When this was done, he put the memorandum-book in the pocket of a
frock-coat, sat down again, drew the sheet of notepaper towards him,
and on it wrote as follows, with a bold, free, rapid hand.
"Captain Hayward presents his compliments to Mr. Henry Wittingham, and
begs to inform him that since he had the honour of seeing him last
night, some business has occurred which compels him to go to London
for a short time. He goes by the coach this day at half-past four,
returns by the coach which leaves London at the same hour to-morrow,
and expects to arrive at the White Hart by half-past eleven or twelve.
If by that time Mr. Wittingham has found some gentleman of honour to
use as his friend, Captain Hayward will have much pleasure in seeing
that gentleman at the White Hart any time between the arrival of the
coach and one o'clock. If not, he will be found for about a fortnight
at Tarningham-park."
The note was then addressed and sealed, and as soon as that was done,
without a moment's pause, Ned Hayward threw off the dress-coat in
which he was still habited, put on a sporting costume, looked through
his book of flies, and taking fishing-rod and basket in one hand, and
the note in the other, descended the stairs.
The house was now in the bustle of morning preparation; housemaids
were sweeping, men-servants were taking away lamps and candlesticks,
and to one of the latter the note was delivered, with a half-crown,
and directions to send some lad immediately to Buxton's inn. That
being done, Ned Hayward strolled out into the park, taking his way
towards the stream, where we will join him by-and-by.
We must now return to Mary Clifford, however, who stood where Ned
Hayward had left her in deep thought for several minutes. Had she been
the least of an actress, she would not have done so, for she might
have fancied that it would betray to her companion, as he walked away,
what was passing in her mind; but Mary was not the least of an
actress. Graceful by nature, ladylike and polished by heart and
education, it had never been necessary for her to picture to her own
imagination what others would think of any of her movements or words.
She was unaccustomed to do so. She never did it. She did not feel
herself upon a stage; she was never acting a part. How few there are
of whom we can say the same! But there she stood, silent, grave, and
thoughtful, with Hayward's words still ringing in her ear, his manner
still before her eyes; and both had been somewhat marked and peculiar.
But three minutes were all that she would give to such thoughts. They
came upon her in confused crowds, so numerous, so busy, so tumultuous,
that they frightened her; and, not being very brave by nature, she ran
away from them, to take refuge with the calmer but sterner meditations
regarding her uncle's situation. What was to be done, and how it was
to be done, were very puzzling questions, which she asked herself over
and over again, without receiving any satisfactory reply from her own
mind. Under the pressure of difficulties and dangers, whether
affecting ourselves, or those near and dear to us, there comes upon us
a necessity for action, a _cacoethes agenda_, which we can scarcely
restrain. We cannot sit down quietly and wait for time and
circumstances to present favourable opportunities, as we should do,
when the affairs in our hands were but matters of indifference to
ourselves; calm, business-like transactions, in which we have no
personal feeling. The heart comes in at every turn, and perplexes all
the fine plans of the head; and we must be up and doing, whether the
moment be favourable, or not. Mary Clifford felt all this, and was, in
some degree, aware of the unreasonableness of precipitancy. She
thought it might be better to wait and see, and yet anxiety,
eagerness, affection, urged her to do something, or something, at
least, for her uncle, as soon as possible. She could not rest under
the load; she felt as if activity would be almost a crime; and thought
she could see no light whichever way she turned, yet she resolved to
attempt something, not feeling very sure, whether she should do injury
or not.
Such was the course of her meditations, for nearly half an hour, after
Ned Hayward left her; and yet it must be confessed that, though these
meditations were upon painful subjects, they were not altogether
painful. Did you ever listen attentively, dear reader, to one of those
fine and masterly pieces of Beethoven's writings, where the great
composer seems to take a delight in puzzling and perplexing the hearer
drowning him, as it were, under a flood of harmony, where discords are
as frequently introduced as any thing else? But still, through them
all runs a strain of melody, which links them all together.
Such was very much the case of Mary Clifford. For, although the
general train of her thoughts was sombre, and there was much cause for
sadness in all she had heard, there was something very sweet--she
herself knew not what--that mingled with the old current of
reflection, and harmonised it beautifully. It was something
hopeful--expectant--trustful--a belief that by the agency of some one
all would go right.--Was it love? Was it the first dawn of that which,
to the young mind, is like the dawn of the morning, that softens and
beautifies every thing? I cannot tell; but, at all events, it was so
far undeveloped, that, like the strain of melody which pours through
the whole of a fine composition, giving a tone of richness and
sweetness to every part, it was undistinguishable from the rest, felt
and known to be there as a thing separate and alone, and yet
inseparable.
Whenever she tried to distinguish it, fear seized upon her, and she
flew away again. Why was she happy, when all that she had heard was
the most likely to render her otherwise? She did not know, she would
not know; but still she gave way to the feeling, although she would
not give way to the thought; and while she shrunk from clothing her
own sensations in distinctness, longed to render them distinct, that
she might enjoy them more fully.
"I will go and seek Isabella," she said, at length, "she must know of
this; and then we can all consult together, perhaps, if one can but
teach her light gay heart to be prudent and discreet--and yet," she
continued, thoughtfully, "she has, perhaps, more worldly wisdom than
myself, more knowledge of life and all life's things. Those who are
accustomed to commune much with their own thoughts, gain, I am afraid,
a conceit in their own opinion, which makes them undervalue those
which are formed upon a practical knowledge of the world. Isabella is
full of resources, and, perhaps, may devise many means that would
never strike me."
These thoughts passed through her mind as she was approaching the
house, and very soon after she stood in her cousin's dressing-room,
finding her, even at that early hour, up and partly dressed.
"Why, dearest Mary," exclaimed Isabella, "where have you got all those
roses? The morning air must be very good for the health, as every one
says, to change your cheek, which was yesterday as pale as twilight,
into the very aspect of the dawn."
"I have been out walking on the terrace, more than an hour," replied
Mary, "and I was pale yesterday, I suppose, from the fright of the
night before. I have had a companion, too, Isabella," she continued
gaily, though her voice trembled a little; "Captain Hayward came up
and joined me, and told me all his adventures of the night before."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Miss Slingsby, "his adventures must be very wild
and singular, I suppose; for his is just the spirit to seek them and
to make the most of them when he has got them. But what has happened
since, Mary?--We had all the details, you know, up to the period at
which, like Don Quixote, he arrived at an inn."
"I do not think there is anything in the least like Don Quixote about
him, Isabella," replied Mary Clifford, gravely; "if he seeks
adventures, it is for the advantage of others."
"So did Don Quixote," replied her cousin, giving her a sly smile; "but
what did he say, dear cousin?"
"Oh, there was a great deal besides what you heard last night,"
replied Miss Clifford, "you only had the sketch, the picture is still
to be filled up, and he had better do it for himself. However, I have
other things to talk to you about, Isabella, of more importance;" and
she glanced at the maid that was arranging her mistress's hair.
"I shall be ready in a minute," answered Miss Slingsby; "make haste,
Minette, I think you have been longer than usual this morning."
The maid, however, had a thousand reasons to give for being longer,
all perfectly valid in her own estimation; and, whether out of spite,
or in the hope that the two young ladies would grow tired of waiting
and say plainly all they had to say, I cannot tell, but she contrived
to occupy a full quarter of an hour more in dressing her mistress's
hair. Those who calculate upon the difficulty of carrying a secret are
rarely mistaken; but in this case Mademoiselle Minette did not arrive
at her end. Mary said nothing more; and, at length, the girl was
dismissed, and the two cousins were left alone together.
"In the name of fortune!" exclaimed Miss Slingsby, as soon as the maid
was gone; "what solemn thing have you got to tell? Has he proposed
already? On my word, it is a very speedy declaration!"
Mary coloured like a rose, but answered gravely, "Dear Isabella, how
can you be so light? If you speak of Captain Hayward, our conversation
has been upon very different subjects, and was a very serious one. I
am afraid I shall have to distress you, Isabella, as much or more,
than his information distressed me."
"I hope not," replied Isabella. "I did not know at all that he was a
distressing person. I always thought him a very pleasant fellow, and
imagined you thought so too, dear cousin; but how has he contrived to
distress you?"
"Why, by some news of no very pleasant character," answered Mary
Clifford, "he overheard, accidentally it seems, some conversation
relating to your father, from which he learned some particulars, that
grieve me greatly to hear."
"Indeed!" cried Miss Slingsby, with a start; "they are not going to
shoot at him, I hope?"
"Oh, dear no," replied Mary, "nothing of that kind; but about his
affairs generally."
"Well, speak out boldly, Mary, dear," answered her cousin, "I see you
are going round the matter, love, for fear of vexing me; tell it at
once, whatever it may be. You know I have a bold heart, not easily put
down; and, though you judge me light and thoughtless, I know, believe
me, Mary, it is more a necessity of my situation than any thing else.
If I were to think by the hour together over all the things that are
unpleasant to me, as you or my dear aunt would do, I should only kill
myself without altering them. Papa has his own ways, which were formed
before I was born; and, coming so late in the day, I don't think I
have any right to meddle with them. I get out of the way of all that
is disagreeable to me as much as I can; and, when I can't, like a good
dutiful daughter, I submit. You know that he is, to use our good old
gardener's expression, 'as kind as the flowers in May;' and I should
be very ungrateful if I teazed him by constantly opposing habits which
I cannot change, and which are my elder brothers and sisters. My
philosophy may be a bad one, but pray leave it to me, Mary, for I
could not be happy with any other."
Mary Clifford took her cousin's hand and pressed it kindly in her own;
"I would not take it from you for the world," she said, "for I know
and understand all you feel, and am quite well aware that you are
performing the first of duties in endeavouring to make your father's
house as happy for him as you can, while you don't suffer your own
mind and manners to be tainted by customs you do not approve. You have
had a hard part to play, dear cousin, and you have played it well; but
it is not upon these subjects I come to speak to you, but upon one,
which though perhaps of less vital importance, unfortunately affects
the happiness of this life more. Your father's means and fortune,
which I am sorry to say, from all I hear, are very much embarrassed."
"Good heavens! what do you mean?" exclaimed Isabella, gazing anxiously
in her face, and Mary went on as delicately as she could to tell her
all that Ned Hayward had communicated. At first, the poor girl seemed
overwhelmed, exclaiming, "A week before they call for such a large
sum! six weeks before the whole is finally gone from us! Good heavens,
Mary, what is to be done?"
In a moment, however, she rallied: "Well," she exclaimed, "I have been
very blind--as blind as a great politician, Mary. A thousand things
should have prepared me for this that I now recollect, letters, and
messages and intimations of various kinds. That sleek knave, Wharton,
is at the bottom of it all; but he shall not crush me; and I dare say
we shall do very well with what is left. I have jewels and trinkets of
my own, and poor mamma's, to keep house for a longtime; and there must
be something left out of the wreck."
"But the thing is, if possible, to prevent the ship from being wrecked
at all," answered Mary Clifford; and she then went on to tell all that
Captain Hayward proposed to do, in order to prevent any immediate
catastrophe, not trusting her voice to comment upon his conduct for a
moment.
But Isabella did it for her, "O, dear, kind, generous fellow," she
cried, "how I love him! Don't you, Mary? Although papa may have many
bad and foolish friends, you see there are some noble and wise
ones--but I'll tell you what, Mary, we'll go down and talk to him
after breakfast, and we'll all consult and see what is to be done;
we'll have a plot to serve papa, whether he will or not; and I declare
Mr. Beauchamp shall be one of the conspirators."
"Just what I should propose," answered Mary Clifford; "for, although
you have known Mr. Beauchamp but a very short time--"
"A good deal longer than you have known Ned Hayward," answered Miss
Slingsby, with a smile.
"Nay, nay, pray do be serious, Isabella," answered her cousin; "I was
going to say, though we have known Mr. Beauchamp but a very short
time, I do believe from various traits I have seen, I do think he is
an amiable and kind-hearted man, though perhaps somewhat cold and
stately."
"Oh, he may be warm enough, for aught we know," replied Miss Slingsby,
"but there is the breakfast bell; papa will be down and want his
coffee."